


It's Only Natural

by gerbilfluff



Category: Wreck-It Ralph (2012)
Genre: Bugs & Insects, Candy, Egg-laying, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:31:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerbilfluff/pseuds/gerbilfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WARNINGS: Spoiler character. In Cybug form. There’s eggs. And big beautiful bootylicious bugdick. And not one damn to be given about how any of this fits in with the overall plot of “Wreck-It Ralph.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Only Natural

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Spoiler character. In Cybug form. There’s eggs. And big beautiful bootylicious bugdick. And not one damn to be given about how any of this fits in with the overall plot of “Wreck-It Ralph.” I don't own "Wreck-It Ralph," nor any of the characters. No profit's being made from this file. Yadda yadda.
> 
> Oh, and seriously, never try what's used for lube here in real life. Two words: Bad End.
> 
> ———

It’s Only Natural  
by Apricot the Gerbil  
  
  
The first of the urges started coming hours ago.  
  
The pain for not following them showed up soon after.  
  
He digs monstrous candy-corn claws as deep into the ground as he can sink, piercing through layer after layer of peanut brittle. His gasps for breath are coming quicker, shallow and panicky. Even with as many consoles as he’s survived, Turbo’s more terrified right now than he’s ever been in his life.  
  
He is NOT going to lay any eggs. He’s _not_.  
  
His massive insect rear arches back, swollen and distended along the bottom. He can feel them shifting against each other when he moves, hard and lumpy, far too many— and every pixel clenched around them’s aching for him to just _let go_. Let instinct take over.  
  
Fat chance. No matter what that Cybug warped it into, this is _his_ body, and the greatest racer of all time is _not_ taking programming orders from some stupid _bug_.  
  
Another spasm hits, curling the feelers at the end of his tail. He braces his churning stomach tight against the ground, a ragged “No, no, no…” slipping out as he pleads to an ass he trusted only hours ago.  
  
His whimpers shudder into a growl, as he feels a trickle of something warm and slick sneak from his tail. There, where his feelers meet— the smooth crevice, slurping open. No. NO. _He's_ the one calling the shots! It's _his body!_ HIS.  
  
Glitchy pixels fray the edge of Turbo’s face, garbling his cries with static, as the strain finally proves too much for him. Another drip leaks out. Then a spurt— clear, syrupy beads pooling on the ground, smearing hot against his two lashing feelers, it’s coming it’s coming, too big, there’s no way—  
  
His opening strains around the colorful jawbreaker shell, stretching him the whole way out, tighter, _tight tight tight_ his wings drum the air, he can’t even breathe— and it’s _out_ , squirting onto the ground with another gout of ooze.  
  
He was so sure it was going to hurt.  
  
Now that it’s out, all Turbo can do is shiver at how _good_ it feels.  
  
And that sweet smell… he scuttles closer to the egg, sniffing the puddles around it warily. His yellow eyes go wide. “Corn syrup?” he murmurs to himself.  
  
He’s too dumbfounded to know whether or not to be disgusted.  
  
No time to wonder, though. There’s another one coming. He can feel it. And more after that.  
  
He’s more confused than scared this time, but he tries settling onto his side, hoping for any comfort that might help him relax. He cranes his candy-ringed neck for a better view of his tail, morbidly curious to see what these things look like coming out.  
  
It’s different the second time around. Easier. Definitely more pleasureable; when a third egg pops out as well by surprise, both of them a rich malted-milkball brown, the sensation has him gasping, gripping at the landscape with every leg he has.  
  
He doesn’t know how, but it’s as though something in the runny stuff slopping out with the eggs is getting him more riled up with every push and release. It’s certainly helping his cargo glide along easier; a slow squeeze and a grunt is all the effort it takes for the next one, peppermint-striped, to join the others.  
  
It’s when a butterscotch shell’s just begun inching its way out, squeezing his exit wider and wider, that his body’s next surprise is dragged outside along with it, rising taut and proud from along the rim of the egg chute. It bobs in the air like a curved spiral-pop, pink and red stripes glossy with a thick syrup glaze.  
  
His face wrinkles in revulsion, but the Cybug part of his coding takes over at the sight. Turbo finds himself coiling forward. Lapping his stripey bug tongue around it. Taking it into his mouth. Sucking. And _sucking_. And squirming, as the rush has him squelching out the butterscotch egg to the tune of a thunderous, leg-bucking cum.  
  
He’s reminded of what crossing a finish line feels like.  
  
The urge flares again, barely giving him a moment’s pause, but Turbo doesn’t fight it. He had no idea it’d feel this good to play along.  
  
The next one looks like an Everlasting Gobstopper, and _oh_ , do the ridges on it ever make his feelers curl. It’s only partway out, but Turbo can’t help himself. His lower legs latch onto the shell and stuff the egg back inside, coating his claws gooey-wet as he eases the lump out and in, out and ramming in, grinding it back and forth along his glorious new pleasure-knob. His face glitches from king to racer to king and back, making his cries crack and stutter. When he finally lets the egg squirt free, another orgasm brings him roaring, panting to the ground, his claws quaking where they lay.   
  
He’s getting dizzy. Not from the effort, but the smell. Everything around him reeks of sugar and sweat. And, he marvels to himself darkly, he’s not even done yet.  
  
“How many of you _are_ there?” he asks, cupping his claws low over his stomach. Pressing down gingerly on the bulges still there. He heaves a weary sigh and slumps back onto the peanut brittle, exhausted.  
  
———  
  
He’s not empty until long into the night.  
  
But when all’s said and done, he gathers them in a heap, scuttling all around to make sure none were spat out of reach.  
  
He pauses, staring at a flutter of motion through the haze of one of the clearer shells. A claw. Or a hand. He’s not sure.  
  
He’s careful to smash every last one of them to a mess of candy and pulp before he moves on.  
  
If there’s one thing Turbo’s never needed, it’s competition.


End file.
